‘I want to see Matthiesson,’ she said.
The cop fell in behind us and we went the rest of the way to the overturned truck and the cars each with flashing warning lights and one blue eye blinking tracers of light over still and moving figures.
Matthiesson was a bulky man in a flak jacket and bullet proof gear. He held an automatic rifle and let its muzzle point to the ground when he saw Cathy.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘And who’s this?’
‘A friend,’ Cathy said dully. ‘Where’s Kevin?’
‘He was hit. I’m sorry. I told you I couldn’t make any promises.’
‘Yes, you did. I want to see him.’
Matthiesson guided us across behind the truck. One of its wheels was still turning slowly and bits of gravel were still falling from it. The overturned truck smelt strongly of liquor, and there were rivulets running from it and soaking into the small, dark, twisted shape on the ground. Kevin was on his back; his face was blotched with blood and one eye socket was a brimming pool. He looked like the death photo of Bugsy Spiegel. Cathy looked down at him and the tears started and fell down her face and onto the body. She just stood there, slightly bent over, and looked and wept. I moved over, put my arm around her and gently eased her away; she went, on feet that moved in a slow, hobbled shuffle.
Sirens started howling and the ambulances arrived and a team came to right the truck. There was a lot of swearing and one scream of pain as someone with bullets in him was moved. I got Cathy back to my car, gave her a cigarette and drove back to Glebe. She resisted nothing, accepted everything. Her shoes had blood on them and I made her kick them off at the door. I sat her down and wiped her face and made us both a drink. She drank it in a gulp and held out the glass for more.
‘You asked why?’
I nodded.
‘I went there to see him this afternoon. To Enmore. Just as I got there this girl came out. Great tall thing, all in pink. Kevin always liked them tall, pink’s his favourite colour. Kevin came out with her. His hair was different and he had a beard. He shaved it off, did y’see?’
I nodded again.
‘He came out with her and I watched.’
‘Cathy, you couldn’t be sure. She might have been with one of the other blokes. Anything…’
‘She copped his special big feel just before she got into her car. I should know. I know what it meant.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘That’s why.’
‹‹Contents››
What Would You Do?
I missed a forehand volley that came at me slow, loopy and as big as a basketball. That gave Terry the set 6–2 which was at least two games more than she usually beat me by. But then, she’s a professional and I’m a roughie; she says she only plays me to get practice against a kicking serve and a good lob.
‘No lobs,’ she said as we walked off the court. ‘You were lousy. What’s wrong, Cliff?’
‘I’ve got a problem.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Later.’
Later turned out to be quite a lot later. We were in my bed, slick with massage oil and sweat. Terry had come and I hadn’t but that was all right. Sometimes it was the other way around, sometimes both of us came, sometimes neither. It was all good. Terry put a pillow on my shoulder and nestled her head in there; she put her hand between my legs.
‘We’ve got all night,’ she said. ‘Let’s hear it.’
Finding young missing persons is either easy or impossible. Many of them want to be found, and all you have to do is locate a friend and squeeze a little. Other names and addresses pop out like pips and the kid turns out to be living on junk food three blocks from home. The hard ones stay hard: the boy or girl goes a long way off and goes for ever. Mothers weep. The Portia Stevenson case looked like a hard one.
Jessie Stevenson of Cammeray was a woman in her late thirties who worked hard at looking ten years younger and did pretty well at it. She came into my office wearing a tailored white suit, high heels and a lot of subtle make up. She slipped into the clients’ chair and put her nice legs nicely on display.
‘I hope it’s not painful to you to mention this,’ she said, ‘but your ex-wife recommended you to me when she heard about our problem. We go sailing together, you see.’
‘It’s not painful. How is Cyn?’
‘Oh, she’s wonderful. She’s married to Simon Theodore, he’s..’
‘In advertising. Yes, I know. If she’s sailing she must have got over her sea sickness. That’s wonderful-I’m glad. Tell me about the problem, Mrs Stevenson.’
‘Jessie, please. After all Cynthia’s told me, I feel I know you.’
I thought Cyn’s version of our marriage would be a tale of bottles and battles, signifying nothing, but perhaps I was wrong.
‘Jessie,’ I said.
‘I’ve got a seventeen-year-old daughter. Her name is Portia. I haven’t seen her for three months. She hasn’t been at school and none of her friends know where she is. There’s been nothing-not a card or a phone call. Nothing. The police have done all the things they do. Nothing.’
‘Any trouble with her? I mean before she went?’
‘Oh, the usual-sulks, squabbles about money and going out. Nothing to speak of. She was a normal teenager. I’ve exhausted myself thinking about what might have made her go. I can’t come up with anything. I’ve been distraught. I’m on medication now.’
There seemed to be an unnatural air to her-a combination of a surface over-alertness and a background dullness. She spoke flatly, without emotion, as if that part of her response had been blocked off or re-routed. I judged her to be very vain and very troubled-not a good combination.
‘I’ll need quite a few things, Jessie. An introduction to someone at her school, a picture of course, a handwriting specimen, and I’ll have to have a pretty thorough session with you and her father to go over her life. Runaway kids usually run back to something-some memory, something like that.’
‘Her father’s dead. He was killed in an accident when Portia was little. I re-married a few years later-Jeff’s been like a father to her for… nearly ten years.’
‘Okay. When can I come out to see you both? Oh, any other kids?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m going sailing this afternoon. I think Jeff’s home tonight. You could come tonight.’
She gave me the address in Cammeray and we fixed on 8.30 for my visit. She got up and moved to the door; she was tall and she moved well but with that same distracted style, as if not all of her was really there. She transferred the leather drawstring bag she carried to her right hand in order to use the left to open the door. Left-handed, I thought, big advantage for tennis. I wondered if the kid was left-handed too; I was already working on the case-but not quite yet.
‘Can I get a cheque from you tonight?’ I asked.
She hesitated and her composed mask dropped momentarily; behind it there was confusion and distress to spare.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Hardy, Yes, yes, of course. Jeff will give you a cheque. Whatever you ask, anything
‘Cliff,’ I said. ‘There’s a standard rate. I’ll see you tonight.’
She went out and I made a few notes and then picked up the phone. Good manners and good sense required me to contact the missing persons department in the police force. I’ve never encountered a competitive feeling from the cops in these matters; they have too many cases on their files to care about a private enquiry into one of them. Their manpower is stretched thin and a case they can cross off the books is just so many more hours they can put in elsewhere. The case officer on the Stevenson matter was Detective Constable Burns, and she was as nice as pie.
‘Not a whisper,’ she told me. ‘The girl was doing quite well at school.’ She named a north shore private school better known for placing its students in the society pages than the professions. ‘Reasonable student, they said. We tracked down five or six friends, nothing. Just didn’t turn up at school one day.’